


A Kingdom of Ash

by Coffee_Scribbles



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bad Decisions, F/M, Insanity, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Polyamory, Well mostly no powers, honestly more lighthearted than you'd think, pls comment and validate my bs, slowburn, some gore, that Gay Shit™
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 05:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15284442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffee_Scribbles/pseuds/Coffee_Scribbles
Summary: For Bruce, it was the night called him to arms. Caught in the crossfire between awe and pure primordial terror, as gunshots forced him to face death itself - and facing a glare that goes through the soul, endless like the void...Death blinked.Diana, she is lost. Knowing that, no matter what, it always repeats. That history is a broken record, and that her past mistakes dictate a future she desperately hopes to change; lest a war she had a strong hand in crafting, consume the world, drowning it in blood.And Clark... he may be called back to his home one day, but there will be nothing there left there to be burned.All that’s left is a kingdom of ash.But the fire still consumes.It is our nature.





	1. To Whom I May Confess

“This is my confession.”

Bruce scrawled, his hands were bruised and bloody from his last day of training in all manner of skills he’d need for his mission. It was the last day before he went out in full, if not in truth. The rest of him was beaten to a similar state, despite the armor he adorned, the layers and layers of padding and enchantments and state-of-the-art armors.  
But he wrote anyway. He had to.

“Though, if I am lucky, this letter may go over better than I anticipate.”

He paused, breathing in the dusty air, watchful of the helmet he’d recently smithed, it’s sharp ears and dark metal glinting in the kerosene lamp’s steady light.

“But I am not a lucky man, and that you know too well. In youth, my parents were stolen from this earth. Though neither of us speak it often, my heart is sure you carry this burden too. But, it is in my hand that their crowns are left, as is the memory of a better city.”

He breathed again, gripping the quill tighter in his hand.

“And though they, my beloved parents, are decades gone. Left on my unfit shoulders are the hopes they once worked for, the dreams they once dreamed, and the memory of a city far better than the filth we now revel in.  
Yet still, the crown that I bear, for I will not back down; though it weighs heavy on the heart.  
My father’s golden circlet is lain deceptively light, despite how low I often hang my head.  
And even though I have grown to idolize it, been schooled and breed to take up such duties, I am denied still the real abilities and skills I require to save this fading city.  
To eternalize the fading memories and hopes of Thomas and Martha Wayne.”

Bruce dipped his quill, his normally even hand shaking, causing a single drop to spill at the edge of the faded yellow parchment.

“For they were my parents, and though decades have passed since they walked among us, Gotham’s now crumbling city streets surely mourn their loss as much as you and I, urning for how they once thrived, how they once loved.  
It is my duty to save Gotham. Though to do that, I must do more, protect by more than just law, power and wealth.  
I must fight for Gotham in the most literal way, though I know your disapproval is high, and as is your the knowledge of our system’s protective qualities. The very reason the protection of our cities was built upon three. One to rule, the King. One to love, the Queen. And one to protect, the Knight. As not to worry the people, as if one falls, two will still stand.  
But I fear the plague of corruption has sullied this home so fully, there are no others to which I may intrust.  
I must bear the brunt of both crown, shield, and blade, and become the Dark Knight myself.”

Bruce scrawled down the last of the note, before slipping on his dark helmet and exiting, the Dark Knight rising as the sun set beyond the clouds, tainting the horizon with red.

“I simply pray that you will understand, eventually why I must do this, dear Alfred. I know this is not a fate you ever wished on our bloodline, on our family, nor on me.  
But please understand, as Father’s greatest confidante, that no matter what may have been wanted for me, this is what he would wish for Gotham.  
And it is with reverence to you I sign as,  
Ruler, yet eternally the Prince of Gotham, Bruce Wayne.”


	2. Past Sins

The terrain was tough, low clouds hid the tips of tall mountains from view at the edge of her vision, blurred by motion, she passed though another valley, looking much like all the others she’d traveled.  
She rode onward.  
Through desert and forrest, through homes and villages left as but ash and bare bones, she traveled; a wandering soul, listless.  
Her trusted palomino mare, Argo, trotted onward, mindless of the destruction that surrounded them both.  
Destruction that her people had caused.

Memories flashed before her jaded eyes, as the merciless horror of what she had once wrought, who she had once been, stirred the young feeling of guilt in the pit of her stomach.  
She remembered the barbaric species of Man, baring their teeth and make-shift weapons at her and her sisters, bloodthirsty and-  
Only, that wasn’t right.  
That viciousness was born from fear and instinct, from the need to survive as the Amazons torched their villages and destroyed their new settlements, draconian in their protection of their sacred homeland; willing to destroy all who dare to even come close.  
And, at the time, she had known no better. At the time, she had wanted nothing more than to protect her sisters from the needless brutality that was Man. Willing to burn them away, to scourge the earth of these creatures that destroyed without care, beasts that had hurt her sisters so long ago; unknowing that they had become the monsters they had once feared.

She remembered the blood spilling down her hands, and how her mother had congratulated her, telling Diana that she had done what was right. Done the gods work in protecting their most sacred, rightful land.

She remembered the chanting of prayers to the gods, to Athena and Ares and Hera.

She remembered how they chanted her name with such admiration, such love. Diana! Diana! Diana! It was their war cry, she, their warrior princess, their leader.

She remembered torches, beads of light that spread destruction through the knight in a blazing inferno, incinerating homes and livelihoods for their ‘righteous cause’.

She remembered the strong scent of burning flesh, and the screams.

She remembered the screams.

She felt stick.

She could never forget the screams.

She could still hear them in the echo’s, when the world was still and the nights were silent. She could still smell it in the air. The smoke, faded, but the restless souls were a hearth that would forever glow.  
Even if the flame had been long doused, they would linger.

With the same movement as she had that long ago, she spurred Argo onward. Just a slight jut of her heel into the mare’s side setting her to move. Her trusty steed so elegantly took them away, swiftly, through the remaining streets of a forgotten death. They kicked up ash like clouds of palpable sin as they glided past the blurred, jutting fossils of homes, escaping into the forest.

 

Before Steve came, she had known how many thought of Themyscira.   
As a sort of dark portal, said to be controlled by demons and fae. These legends that weren’t exactly dissuaded by those who set up camp near or around it, running back, their possessions gone, covered in ash.  
They’d tell tales of endless hordes of demons, shooting lightning and breathing fire, destroying all they came into contact with like manifestations of war and death. Chanting in some sort of demonic script, words that would cause mortal men to go insane.  
That was if they were lucky.  
If they were unlucky, they would never come back. It was a wasteland.  
Before Steve came, she thought the perpetuity of this mythos was their greatest defense, that they must destroy and kill without mercy, lest man’s world realize and consume their great empire.

Diana took a deep breath, knowing that she could no longer live beside her sisters if they were so unwilling to see the faults in their ways.   
But she knew in her armor and garb, someone was bound to notice her. Whether from the tales of her, bathed in blood and hellfire, heading a pack of furies to destroy all who dare infringe on her territory… or from the long past days where amazons walked the earth alongside man.  
She knew, to start a new life, one of peace and prosperity and hope, without bloodshed, she could not allow herself even the temptation of going back.  
No matter how deeply she missed her sisters, and her mother.  
No matter how she missed her home.

So, Diana rode onward, the steady beat of hooves beneath her as she traveled, never once looking back.

Eventually, she stopped at a small, quiet clearing in the faded wood, only a mile or so out from a small village. She could be done here, leave it all behind.

Diana dismounted Argo and patted her trusted mare gently. Her only company in this strange new world that she was determined to see the beauty in. She walked a few steps deeper into the center of the clearing, and steadied herself.  
Kneeling to the rough mulch beneath her, she stayed silent, before beginning to claw at the ground, shoveling the loose dirt to the side to create a small trench.

Once done, she removed her sword from it’s confining sheath, hallowing her once trusted blade, and placing it in the ditch.  
Standing and honoring it properly with words she had heard, but never used before, she unlatched her armor. The enchanted metals that curled into enchant blessings, tossed so easily away. Shedding the chest plate, the leather bodice, every piece of her amazonian legacy.  
Gone.  
Leaving her in only the civilian cloth of her well fit, knee-length tunic.  
She uttered one last a prayer to gods she was no longer sure were listening. Whispering the old words in hopes that a warrior of truth and honor, one who would use these weapons to protect rather than slaughter, could find the armor and use it for a more honorable purpose than she had.  
And with that, she covered the armor, breathing deep and solemn as she moved on to what she had to do next… Only to hear something… someone, several of them, shifting, yelling, growing closer.

Diana, unarmed and unarmored, having just sworn off everything she once knew, followed her instincts and moved to get a better vantage point, surveying the situation with a warrior’s eye, her heartbeat flickering as the readiness for a fight stirred beneath her skin.  
A group of mostly women, though a few men too, ran past her hiding spot, obviously farmers or dames of a small village by their clothing, being herded by several warrior women who were not amazons.  
She wasn’t sure if she should be thankful for that fact.  
Eyes narrowed, Diana shifted closer to the scene, realizing only moments later what she was doing. Her heart plummeted. Just moments ago she had sworn off any of this, sworn off killing and being a warrior, in Steve’s memory no less! What was she doing?!

 

“Okay,” the well armored, dark-skinned man she recognized, but couldn’t quite place where from, spoke casually. He seemed to head the group of warrior women, who had managed to circle and capture a rather large group of villagers. It was obvious from their form they knew what they were doing.  
She immediately recognized the cheetah print fabric, pinned to their shoulders. They were Urzkartaga’s warriors.  
That meant that if she didn’t do something, these poor girls would be slaughtered as sacrifices!  
Diana clenched her fists, working to steady her breathing and not give herself away.  
“We can do this, one of two ways,” the man held up two fingers, and Diana couldn’t see his face, but she knew by his voice he was smirking.  
Bastard.

“You can let us have the girls and go back to those huts you call home, or,” he paused, speaking as if his words were completely reasonable.  
“We can hack you into little pieces, then take the girls anyway!”  
They had the audacity to laugh at this, and Diana grit her teeth at the barbarity of Man.  
The villagers shifted uneasily, forming a sort of defensive circle, with several of their weakest pushed to the center, and the rim composed of mostly men, squared up and ready for a fight.

“Besides, their deaths are of great honor! They are offerings-” the bastard was cut off by a male who seemed only a bit younger than Diana himself.

“No! Don’t touch them!!” He shouted, voice and fists quaking as he shoved his way from the relative safety of his fellows.  
Their protective ring shuffled as people moved, terrified, breathing quick, some even sobbing in their terror. The boy, a farmer by the looks of it, but too young to own land, moved in front of the warrior who taunted them, splaying his arms as if to guard his people.  
Diana scanned him, intrigued.  
He was unarmed, but muscular in the way only a farmhand might be. She could tell by his unmarred, sun-tanned skin and lively blue eyes, that he had never been even near a fight before. Though the boy did well to try and camouflage that fact.  
The bastard made a growling noise somewhere between a snarl and scoff.

“Well, well, well,” he held out a hand, one of his soldiers pulling a whip from her satchel and handing it over in what was definitely a practiced movement.  
Diana bit back a growl.  
“I guess it’s never to late to start training a slave some manners, huh?”  
He laughed cruelly, and Diana could see the flicker of fear in the boy’s eyes, how his chest shook with his quaking breathing and muscles clenched, prepared for the blow that was sure to come.  
To his credit, the boy didn’t back down. But Diana knew she had to take action, even without her armor or her sword, or her sister’s aid, she had to protect the innocent.  
So, in one fluid movement, she advanced forward, and in the same motion that he coiled the whip back to strike the brave boy, Diana grabbed the end and yanked, freeing the weapon from his grip and pulling it into her own.

The bastard turned around, confused and shocked, quick to meet her gaze.  
Oh yes, this was a man she definitely recognized.  
Andres Cadulo. A man with a scraggly beard, flat brown hair, and a nice long scar along the side of his throat, a scar she had gifted him.  
A warning, not to cross her again.  
Apparently, a warning that needed to be repeated. 

“Ready the girls for the sacrifice!” Cadulo ordered, eyes narrowing on her, never parting from Diana’s waiting, unarmored form.  
“I’ll take care of her,” he spat cruelly.  
Diana only gained a vicious smirk.

She had given him warning once. But apparently, he wasn’t about to listen.  
Well, she did give him a chance.  
A war cry tore from Cadulo’s lungs as he rushed her, drawing his dagger with a sharp movement.  
And just like that, pandemonium broke out.

The villagers screamed and cried out as their captors took them down, but they fought valiantly. Their captors trying with renewed efforts to tie them up and trap them, and several even moving to help their leader fight Diana.

Caludo thrust his blade forward, but Diana was too quick as she leapt into the branches of a nearby tree. Disarming her foe with a sharp movement that curled the end of her whip around his blade.  
Diana moved to disarm him, but he tugged the handle from her grip, forcing her from her hiding place and sending her tumbling.  
She rolled out to stand, hands steady and breathing hard as they circled eachother for a bare second. This time, it was her who moved first, twisting roughly to land a roundhouse kick to his side.  
It connected with a loud thwack, but Cadulo was prepared for the pain and took the chance to grab her leg and hold it at his side, debilitating her.  
Diana kicked the leg up and went into a back walk-over, slamming her opponent, who still clung to her leg, into the unforgiving dirt.  
Diana turned just in time to catch one of the three soldiers that charged at her with a strong punch, his nose snapping with a crunch at the blow and gushing blood.  
She turned again, dodging the spear that’s thrusting stab skimmed her shoulder, she ducked and swiped her opponents legs from under her.  
Diana grabbed the weapon, the flint end end having broken off, leaving her with a simple staff, she knocked out two more warriors with it, then rushed to take down more who were trying to tie up the girls.  
Cadulo stood shakily, gaining in fury as he drew his sword and charged her again. Diana barely noticed, adrenaline still setting like fire through her veins as she ducked and served a kick to the back of another opponent’s knees, forcing her legs to buckle.  
Cadulo’s sword threw forward and Diana instinctively moved to block, forgetting that she had buried her arm-bracers just minutes ago, and grimacing at the white hot pain that surged through her veins, and the blood that dripped down her arm as the sword cleaved into the unarmored flesh of her forearm.  
She didnt have time to focus on that, though, as Cadulo laughed victoriously, and moved to try again. Diana hissed, panting and glowering as she noticed the boy that had stood up for himself being forcibly restrained by three soldiers.  
Impressive.  
Quick with her movement, Diana dodged the sword that came down and tucked into a roll to stand, storming into a run and leaping up, flipping off a nearby tree and landing on the shoulders of one of the women attacking the farm-boy.  
Diana shifted her weight, forcing the woman to tumble, Diana used the last moments of the warrior’s collapse to leap off her shoulders and duck her into a roll, her bloody arm searing as dirt infected it, she hissed and paused for only a second. But a second was all it took for Diana felt a pain through her shoulder, and find herself tumbling down.

“She’s down!” Several of the attackers cheered, all drawing their swords and circling her quickly. Their sacrifices all but forgotten, left to run off as Cadulo and his warrior’s zeroed in on their revenge.

Caludo snagged a sword from one of his warrior’s hands, and laughed and evil little laugh, as he drew his sword upward.

Not drawing attention to it, Diana’s hands scrounged in the dirt, and just as Caludo took a heavy swing, the blade plunging straight at her head as she found it.  
Diana lifted her sword with a jolt, blocking the attack and snagging her crown from beneath the soil where she’d buried the items.  
Diana threw her tiara, it’s razor sharp edges easily severing the hilts of her opponent’s swords from their blades.

Now armed, Caludo and his soldiers backed up quickly.  
It was now Diana’s turn to laugh, as the fight began on her terms.

 

Just a few minutes later, her opponents defeated. Caludo knelt before Diana, the only one left, beaten and kneeling, but still conscious.

“Don’t come near here again,” she warned.  
Maybe he’d listen this time.

“And,” She held her sword with her still bloodied arm, eyes like fire as she used the gentle tip of her blade to tease the swatch of cheetah print fabric tied around his shoulder.  
“Tell Urzkartaga, that Diana says hello.”


	3. Hearts in Contrast

“And that thing you did with the flip? That was amazing!” The farm boy who had stood up for himself —she had learned him to be named Clark— continued to ramble. Eyes alight with excitement and awe as he paced in front of where Diana was being treated. The woman tending to her, Martha Kent, a short elderly woman with a certain fondness to her, chuckled mildly. Her blonde hair tussling slightly as she shook her head, smiling to the boy’s actions as a younger woman handed her bandages.  
Diana focused on her breathing, in and out, of the musty, sun-soaked air as she held her forearm steady for the elder, Martha, to bandage.  
She was gentle as she dabbed at the newly clean, sluggishly bleeding wound. Diana hissed lightly as the soreness and sharp pain intermingled, as, with a slow sort of grace, Martha wrapped the soft linen bandages around her wound.

“And how you snatched his knife with the whip? That was so cool!” Clark rambled, his voice was excited, yet somehow soothing. Though he was surely wearing a trail in the floor at how he paced.  
“And-and how did you learn all those fighting moves? Oh please, you’ve got to teach me!”   
The older woman, Clark’s mother, shook her head with a slight titter forming. She waved off her younger aid in a fluid movement, and the young girl was quick to stumble from the room. Quite clearly shaken, likely from their encounter that morning.  
Martha stood slowly, pausing for a moment before raising her hand and ruffling Clark’s hair, a motion he helped by tilting his head down.

“Now now sugarplum, don’ get too excited. The lil’missie needs ‘er rest,” Martha tutted at her boy, who pretended to pout. The sheer maternity of the situation filled Diana’s senses, and she found her heart longing for home, and though Martha acted nothing like her mother, queen of the amazons, built of strength and immortality, this stubby, sweetheart of a woman reminded Diana of home.  
Of her sisters.  
Of a family with which she was no longer welcome.

“Ms. Diana…? Are you okay? Is your wound acting up?” Clark was by her side in an instant, startling the warrior. She hadn’t heard him approach.  
Martha watched her, and when Diana was a bit too quick to shake her head and insist that she was fine, her once fond smile twitched to a frown.  
Diana stood, grabbing the knapsack which Mr. Kent had insisted she use to store her things, and throwing it over her shoulder with maybe a bit too much force.

“I should be going,” Diana spoke, not noticing how Clark’s eyes went wide and brow furrowed, “it’ll be dusk soon and-“

“Yes, it will be dusk soon.” Martha stated, voice firm and tone eerily similar to the one her own mother would use when Diana was about to do something indescribably stupid.   
“And that is exactly why you’re staying.”  
The room itself paused. The only movement, that of a slow wind and the darkness of an approaching storm, fluttering through the curtains and the trees. And somewhere in the distance, there was thunder.  
“Clark, be a dear and fix up a room for-”

“Already on it ‘Ma,” Clark smiled, rushing from the room with a spring in his step.

“I admire your open hospitality, but I really must be on my way.” Diana tried to move toward the door, only to find the doorway blocked by Martha’s determined form.  
Diana blinked a bit.

“When you’ve healed, maybe.” Her words left no room for argument, and despite herself, Diana slowly felt the fight seeping from her bones.  
She was so tired.

“I wouldn’t wish to intrude…” It was a last ditch attempt really, and she didn’t even really mean it.  
Martha seemed proud of her victory, and smiled, then instead of simply moving aside like Diana had expected, she opened her arms.  
“Come’ere,” she beckoned, and Diana could only nod and carefully embrace the shorter woman.  
There was a pause, Diana’s breathing slowed as the tightness in her chest slowly melted. A dusty scent like fresh dough and dried herbs, soft and sweet, embraced her just as tightly as Martha’s arms did; and Diana found her stomach twisting and pressure behind her eyes tingling as she forced herself to stay steady and to stop thinking about a home that was no longer hers.  
To stop thinking about the weeks she had spent, wandering, lost, devoid of all care and contact.

“Please darlin’, stay as long as you need.” Her embrace was so unlike Diana’s own mother, a woman of tight muscle and godly strength. While Martha’s was soft, like hugging a warm pillow, Diana breathed in her warm apple butter and cinnamon scent.  
The arms that encircled her were frail, but no less comforting as they slowly slid, holding Diana by her biceps before one hand lifted to grasp her cheek.  
Diana bent down as to make it easier for her.

“You saved my boy,” she smiled, and the expression reminded her of home. Of white sand beaches and the warmth of the sun, and suddenly she felt the need to be outside, to flee the confined space and feel the sun on her skin.

“I’ll stay,” Diana finally allowed, her voice a hoarse whisper.

“Good,” Martha smiled, patting her on the arm.  
As if on cue, Clark knocked on the doorframe with a smile.

“Pa says it’s almost supper time, and wants to know where you put the-“

“Bread’s in the left cupboard hun,” Martha called, Clark shouted a short thanks before echoing it back to his ‘Pa’. Diana smiled for a moment as Martha shook her head fondly and rushed to the kitchen herself, smiling as she was greeted with a peck on the cheek from her husband, who’s arms bore the missing edibles.

"Thank ya sugar,” he smiled, a loving expression. Diana, despite having yet to be formally introduced to the trim, aged man, assumed him to be Clark’s ‘Pa’.

“Now you two head over to the hall, while yer’ pa and I pack the food for the potluck,” Martha ushered them both out, ruffling both Clark and Diana’s hair without hesitation.  
Clark smiled and laughed into the action, making a joke that Diana couldn’t quite process, far to lost in the sensation of the kindness so readily offered to her, even though in another time, she would have killed them without hesitation.

They had only taken a few steps out the door, Clark in the lead, before he realized something was wrong, and slowed his pace to walk beside her. It was not the easiest task to do without trampling the wheat that grew from the earth around them, but he managed; even plucking one of the wheat stalks and chewing on the end.

“Hey, ya alright?” Clark asked slowly shifting between looking where they were going and watching Diana as they padded down the dirt road.

“How do you mean?” Diana hadn’t thought she’d been displaying any emotions besides thoughtfulness.  
Clark, however, seemed to disagree.

“I dunno, ya just… seem down.” Diana paused as Clark wrapped an arm around her shoulder, a careful, kindness in the gesture.  
“Jus’ wanna let you know I’m here if ya need a friendly ear,” he smiled, chewing mindlessly on the stalk, causing the end to bob ever so slightly.  
Diana felt ashamed that her first instinct was to flinch at the contact, even after they had helped her, bandaged her wounds and gifted her a place to rest, the stories of Man’s world’s barbaric tendencies were ingrained deep into her mind.  
And yet, as Clark pulled her just bare inches closer, she couldn’t help but think of the only other man who had ever held her so sweetly.  
Diana shook her head, as if to forcibly dispel the intrusive thoughts of Steve from her mind.

“M’kay?” Clark asked, eyes narrowed in the sun, but sharp in their concern.  
Diana blinked, taking a moment to remember what he had last said.

“Apologies, I… didn’t mean to worry you,” Diana affirmed, the villagers here had already done so much for her, she wouldn’t want to cause them unnecessary stress.  
Besides, it wasn’t like it mattered anymore.

“Naw, it’s no fuss.” Clark waved his hand dismissively, but smiled at Diana anyway. The expression was somehow… reassuring.  
The feeling coiled in her stomach like guilt.  
“Jus’ lettin’ ya know that if you wan’, you can always tell me what’s on yer mind,” Clark assured.  
Diana let out a dwindling sigh, and their pace slowed further as they made a turn, dawdling such as to have a more private conversation.  
But the closer they got to ‘the hall’ as Martha had called it, the more people loitered around, chatting with each-other or just generally moving toward ‘the hall’.

“I suppose I am a bit… homesick,” Diana muttered, eyes downcast.  
Clark paused mid-step, backtracking a few before pausing, surveying the area.  
Diana blinked as the farm-boy lead her off the side of what seemed to be another home, sturdy wooden planks with a straw roof, similar to the Kent’s cottage, if a bit smaller. He leaned up against the wall, bringing her to do the same; his arm still weighed heavy, though pleasantly warm, around her shoulder.  
“Oh?” Clark spoke prolixly, not looking at her, not as though through shame, more... a kindness, knowing with his gaze he brought the pressure to answer. Instead, he simply watched forward, voice calm as he spoke again, a tone with which one would assure a forrest doe.  
“Is that where yer headin’?” Clark asked, eyes distant across the open distance of fields, hemmed with trees and gentle brush.  
Instead of answering, Diana watched the man for a moment.  
Clark, a farm boy, muscular and tall, chewing on the end wheat stalk and looking so, uncannily... unnatural. His personality married to the warm, kind, sun-soaked atmosphere, scented of dry grass and fertile earth.  
And yet, there was also something… off.  
About him, the way he stood just a bit too attentive, the way his gaze seemed so far off, distant, like looking for something greater.  
Clark, she realized, though not consciously aiming to compare, looked absolutely nothing like Steve.  
Her breath caught at the thought, and the small sound seemed to snap the farm-boy from his revery, turning to face her. His face, impossibly close, his breath warm and cautionary, tickling the tip of her nose.  
That distance in his eyes glittered up close, Diana stared deeply into his eyes, that distance was closer now, physically. And yet.. an asymptote. Closer and closer and closer still, but somehow still impossibly far, her finger tips grazing the eternity.  
It was so unlike the blond-haired, brown-eyed martyr she had once... cared for. And so unlike anyone else in the quaint little town.  
Clark, with his mid-length, dark curly hair, hidden from view by frayed a straw hat. Clark with his strong, clean-shaven jawline of tanned skin, gentle accent, and slightly musty scent, like oats and wheat and open fields.  
Clark, and the fact that he was absolutely nothing like Steve, and yet, when he smiled...  
Hera damn his smile. Lopsided and familiar, she knew in her heart that the gods forged his damn his smile the exact same way.  
And it was killing her, slowly.

"Diana?" Clark asked, voice tepid and caring. Not entirely unlike the warm gust of air that fluttered the tan dress Martha Kent had gifted her.  
“Hm?” Diana hummed, she really needed to stop getting lost in thought.  
He seemed to take this as an answer to his question, as he gave a slightly flustered laugh and rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Well... I jus’ assumed ya were headin’ home, ya seemed in a pretty good rush,” he defended.  
Diana's stomach plummeted, she looked away.

“Oh… no. I’m not- I can’t really go back,” she paused, taking a deep breath and settling into the silence once more.  
Only for it to be broken moments later.  
“Why?" Clark asked, "if ya don’ mind me askin’."  
Diana swallowed heavily, taking in another deep breath, so heavy she could almost taste it on her tongue. The scent, of dry hay and wood in the air, dull and nearly unnoticeable, but it stood out because it wasn't of burnt flesh, nor of sulphur or ash.  
It was the scent of good because it was like nothing even went wrong.  
“I was a bad person, did some… bad things.” Diana wrapped her arms around herself, pausing, waiting for the warmth of his arm to be torn away, for him to drop the conversation and realize her truth.  
“Ya were,” Clark said. It was not a question, nor a confirmation.  
It was like he was expecting her to understand something about her sentence, something she couldn't quite see.  
It was all she could do to nod, their faces still gently close, but Clark was back to watching the distance, even though his gaze continued to flicker between her and the verdant horizon.

“Ya were, that there’s a past tense,” Clark said again, as if expecting her to get it.  
Whatever 'it' was.  
“So," he paused, as if scrounging for the right words, "ya wouldn’t do wha’ever bad stuff ya did then, now." He paused, right?”   
“…Yes?”  
Diana was officially confused.  
“Well Pa says the past’s behind us, and tha's where it's meant to stay," Clark smiled, just a twitch to the edge of his lips.   
Diana watched him intently, and sure enough, he explained further.  
“See," he gestured with his free hand, "if ya keep thinkin' ‘bout the past, you'll never see the good ’n the future, so you'll never move on ta’ see the good person we can be.”  
There was a rather sizable pause after that, and Clark, though he could never prove it, would bet the farm that Diana nuzzled just an inch closer after that, and smiled.  
“Your father is very intelligent, for a man.” Diana said, still smiling, ever so slightly.  
It was a warm, comfortable expression, even if Clark could only get glimpses of it due to not wanting the other to feel awkward at their proximity.  
“Er, thanks?” Clark asked, laughing a little bit.  
Diana nodded in acceptance, and Clark was sure this would make one heck of a story.


	4. My History Haunts Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !!!!WARNING FOR GORE!!!!  
>  STAY SAFE MY LOVELIES!!

Diana breathed a heavy sigh, hot in the muggy air of the wheat fields where she’d been working for what had to have been hours now. She brushed the sheen of sweat from her brow. The sun beat down, thick like a mist enveloping her entire body, making her work clothes feel tight and her chest fall rhythmically with the exertion.  
Diana pushed back the fly-aways from her haphazardly tied hair, accidentally knocking her straw hat askew.  
Diana paused to adjust the hat and decided to tighten the ribbon that kept it secured. It was after all a lovely, hand-woven gift; useful but also made with heart.  
But, just as she pulled on the blue bow, set beneath her chin, undoing its fastenings, a gust of strong wind from the north threw the newly unsecured hat from her head, the hat soaring far into the golden wheat fields.  
She chased after it, squinting in the beating rays of sunlight that now reached her unprotected eyes, the blurry fields of wheat rushing around her legs, the thick sod beneath hindering her movement with how it sunk beneath her.  
She crashed into something. Toppling, a grunt that was not her own reached her ears, and she tumbled atop something firm and pleasant.  
Or, she should say, someone.  
Her eyes squinted open, the blurred form of dark hair and tanned skin sat pinned beneath her, his muscular shoulders held down by her calloused hands, and his hips and waist pressed tightly between her thighs.

“Well ‘ello there’,” the figure snarked in a voice smooth and playful, but with the tang of an accent she recognized almost instantly. Diana was quick to release the biceps of the man to clear her eyes.  
She rubbed at her eyes, the flush dancing over her cheeks and down her neck surely from the heat of the sun, with little to do with the warm, familiar body beneath her.  
Once her vision came into focus, she found her ears had not deceived her, and she was seated atop the quite calm, seemingly unharmed figure of Clark Kent.  
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her throat was dry and when she tried to wet her lips, she found the roof of her mouth tasting almost sour.

“This is yer’s?” Clark asked, like he already knew the answer. Diana raised a brow in confusion for a moment, until he tilted his head to his left, and she turned her head to see, held in his left hand, was the very sun-hat she’d been chasing.  
She wondered how he’d managed to catch it, and moved to speak again, only to be cut off by his familiar, lopsided smile.

“Here,” Clark muttered, placing it atop her head and adjusting it without a thought, she bowed her head closer to make it easier on him, as his hands found where the ribbons connected to the hat and glided down, his knuckles grazing her cheeks. The already flushed skin tingled at a touch that was barely there, and something in her gut curled with warmth so mundane yet so alien to anything she knew.  
Diana watched his focused face, the slight pinch in his brow and way he jutted out his lips ever so slightly, as he tied the bow beneath her chin.

A slow gust of wind rolled through the hillside, a reminder of a world outside of them, and yet, to the universe they were lost, caught out of focus.  
As winds blew stronger, Clark’s strong, impossibly soft hands lingered on the ribbons and her neck, the softness of the skin beneath her chin, her throat, humming with soft breath and beating to a slightly elevated pulse. But the winds did not steal her hat, and he met her eye once more, with no reason other than to share his smile.  
The gaze seemed to last hours, though it felt like seconds, before a flicker of something dark crossed her vision.  
Diana looked up, brows slowly knitting together as the pleasant heat of the sun was sapped away, and a scream tinged the edge of her hearing.  
Her head whipped toward the sound as sparks flitted through the air like fireflies, glittering among a dusk of fluttering soot. The ash danced among the flames that were all too quickly consuming the small village that had granted her shelter, but her bated breath caught hard at what met her gaze.  
She clambered to stand at a sight far worse than the fire and death.  
Her sisters.  
Amazons, donned in armor and laughing, laughing as the torches they held strong in their grasp lit homes ablaze, laughing as men and women and children alike cowered in fear. The Amazons cheered, their war cries shrill atop their armored mares, as her sisters, those she once called a family, burned the world to dust.

Diana tried to move, to help evacuate or to fight, despite her unarmed and unarmored status, she knew she had to do something.  
But for the life of her, and for the life of the men and women and children in the village, she couldn’t seem to move.

There was no warning before pain exploded by her temple as it was struck by the hilt of a sword, the strike shot her head to the upper left as she crumbled to her knees and the blurred form of a rider came into view, she grimaced and tried to orient herself. The hit was too high to be from anything other than someone on horseback, and looking up, preparing for a fight, her eyes widened in horror as the hay-fields lit around them, circling them in a ring of hellfire.  
Diana watched the terror clouding Clark’s every move as he crawled closer to Diana clumsily.  
The woman who had knocked Diana down so easily trotted before them, paying little mind to Clark as Diana clutched her throbbing head. She was unable to do much else, the blade extended beneath Diana’s neck prohibiting any sort of fair combat.  
Diana knew she was an amazon, armor obviously from her home, adorned in gold and fine leathers, with soft furs on the cloak over her shoulders and a hood that obscured her face from view.  
Her well trained Camargue mare calmly stayed her movement among the flames, Clark cowered behind her.  
Even if her legs didn’t feel cemented in place, Diana knew better than to stand.

“You should have known this would happen,” said a voice that made Diana’s stomach plummet and her muscles tense in terror.  
No, no, this wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be happening.

The figure dismounted her mare in a movement one she recognized impossibly well. Her blade still itching beneath Diana’s chin, she pulled away her hood in an almost sadistic movement. The hair that spilled fourth fell in waves far to similar to Diana’s own, and the eyes that met her own matched perfectly.  
Diana’s breathing was heavy, the air around her swirling of sulphur and sorrow as the familiar face drew nearer.

 

“NO!!” A voice yelled, and Diana’s eyes went wide.

Clark scrambled into the fray, the extended blade now pressed cleanly against the side of his throat as he forced himself between mother and daughter.

“D-Don’t. Please. Don’t… Don’t do this.” Clark’s entire body trembled in mortal terror.

“Well well well, what do we have here?” The sickeningly sweet voice rung out, her strong arms twitched, shifting the tip of her sword to tap at Clark’s windpipe.  
He flinched violently.

“My darling,” The Queen shifted to look at Diana, “how far you’ve fallen, requiring protection from men,” she spat, grip on the blade tightening.

Diana couldn’t see Clark swallow, nor could she see the fear in his eyes, but the way her mother smiled was enough.  
The way her mother laughed made it worse.

“No need to worry though, little starlight,” she muttered the familiar nickname with a smile, so warm and fond it felt misplaced on the tongue of this… warmonger.  
“Mother will make it all better.” She smiled, the expression twisted, nothing but fang and malice.

Diana’s eyes widened and her breath hitched as she realized what was about to happen, but found herself unable to cry out.

The Amazonian Queen drew back her blade swiftly, and, Diana scrambled to find her sword in the dirt, hoping somehow, it to be hidden among the wheat.  
The moment Clark realized he was going to die, he froze.

But Diana’s hand hit metal among the wheat, just as the sword came thrashing back toward Clark’s neck, the boy too caught in terror to dodge.  
Diana quickly grasped the golden handle of her sword and threw it up to block the impending blow, only to drop the blade with a sharp cry as the holy hilt burned through her flesh like acid.

Diana had no time to grasp the pain or scream as she pulled away, the muscles sizzling at the heat, the skin of her palm charred and leathery. The burnt flesh still pulsed with searing agony and blood, and Clark’s bloodcurdling scream tore from his raw throat, cut off by a gargling sound after the sound of flesh being split open cut through the air.  
Diana instantly wished she hadn't looked over.  
The sight of Clark, his neck slit open and spurting with blood, was almost more painful than her hand, still burning cruelly.  
Clark doubled over, clawing helplessly at his chest and neck, falling onto all fours as he spat up and choked on blood. The red, viscus liquid spurting from his open throat as his nails tore into the raw flesh of his slit throat.  
His body thrashed in agony as he fell to the ground, croaking, trying to take in oxygen around the blood that was drowning him in the open, ash ridden air. His body convulsed even minutes after he’d given in, blood still spilling and flowing over ash and earth.

Diana screamed.

A second later her body jolted up in her cot, eyes wild and flickering around the room, taking in every detail, every shadow, as her mind replayed everything.  
Touch, warmth, heat. Wind, ash, blood.  
Fire, death… Clark.  
Diana tried to steady her heaving chest, tried to release her iron clad grasp upon the frayed hems of the woolen bedsheets, a grip that was tearing the sheets and straining the bandages wrapped around her forearm.  
But even focusing on the true sensation of cool dampness across the sheets, centering on the quick pulse of blood in her veins and cool midnight air gasping through lungs, did little to steady her heart, nor temper her growing nausea.  
How could it?  
Every touch brought memory of the inferno’s that consumed so ruthlessly, with every breath caught imagined ash in her lungs, with every blink brought memories of Clark’s… Clark’s…  
She was definitely going to be sick.

Diana pulled herself from under the covers just in time for her to notice, in the low light of the moon, a shifting figure, waiting.  
Diana then remembered that she was sleeping in the same room as the Kents, and held her breath.  
That, of course, did not make the figure fall back asleep.

“..Ms. Diana..?” A weary voice muttered, sleep deepened and rough with a voice she could still hear screaming through her head, self-sacrificing, gasping for air around the blood that drowned him from the inside out.

“Ms. Diana, ‘re ya’ alright?” Clark sat up, yawning and blinking slowly, scotching to sit up in his small bed.

“Fine.” Diana spoke, voice choked and absolute. She never met his gaze.  
She turned and ducked out of her cot in a swift, fluid movement, recoiling only slightly at the chill of the slightly damp dirt floor.

“…’s har’ly pas’ sunrise,” Clark muttered, accent thicker the more tired he seemed. He rubbed at his eyes and stretched.  
“Where’re ya’-“  
Diana did not wait for him to finish. His every word made her flinch, every movement a reminder of how he clawed at his open throat and-

“I’m going for a walk,” she spoke sourly, clad in only her long woolen tunic, not even bothering to dress herself before following the guidance of the silver moonlight to flee through the door.  
She escaped into the brisk air of a morning dark enough that could still be counted as night. Breathing deeply the heavy scent of hay, rain, and dirt rushed through her senses as she threw herself into the darkness, running barefoot through the damp fields that’s soil did nothing to hold her, dew-drops only slightly chilling her bereft skin, as Diana continued to breathe in her freedom, slowing to a jog, then a stroll.  
She took another long breath, and turned around, watching the Kent’s cottage from a distance, peering over the road to the village and the other small homes in the close distance. She wished her stance was of a guardian watching over them, but she knew deep down, in the truth of her nightmare, that if she were to stay any longer, she would be putting them in danger.  
Well, more danger, if Urzkartaga’s soldiers had been any indication, as well as their proximity to the Amazons ever expanding borders…  
She sighed, and sat, breathing in and out, working to even it, grasping shakily at the sharp stems of the field and the loving atmosphere that had kept her for longer than she’d expected to stay. Three days to be exact.  
Three days of full meals in the halls where she had been accepted without query, three days of hard work that left her bones aching in satisfaction of having accomplished something without bloodshed.  
Three days of feeling loved again.  
Three days of putting the town in danger for no reason other than to lighten her own selfish woes.

…And yet, in the moment, under the twinkling starlight and the first dredges of dawn, all was safe and calm, if not a bit damp from the night’s rain.  
It was a quaint, bucolic atmosphere, she hadn’t gotten to appreciate before, one that Diana knew she’d miss when she left.  
She blinked in the darkness and clenched her fists at the images of similar hay fields set ablaze in the nightmare that invaded, holding her breath to the feelings she just couldn’t shake.  
Fear, guilt, loss.  
Love.

 

“Ya’ doin’ okay?” Diana jumped at Clark’s sweet-toned charm, unbrushed hair whipping around toward as she stared at him, every muscle in her body tensing before she forced herself to breathe.  
She met his eyes, and was slammed with a wave of- something, she couldn't quite determine what. But it ached in her chest as he sat down next to her, and pulsed as he stared forward, not seeming to mind nor even notice the dampness of the hay and sod.  
Diana watched him for a moment, the twitch in his jaw as he bit the inside of his cheek, the slow rise and fall of his broad chest as he stared plainly forward.  
It almost hurt to see him, to hear him speak.  
And yet, at the same time, it was the most comforted she’d felt in eons.

“Have a bad dream?” Clark asked quietly, still staring straight ahead. He seemed to be actively smothering his accent.  
Diana breathed in, waited for the flashes of memory, of blood and fire and ash to pass, then breathed out into the damp dawn air.  
Her hands dug deep into the mulch, fingers clawing into the ground and tightening into fists. She wanted to scream, to cry.  
She did neither, and nodded with obvious strain.  
There was a small, empathetic pause.

“Wanna talk ‘bout it?” He asked.  
She didn’t even have to think to make that decision.  
She shook her head quickly.  
Clark hummed in what seemed to be thought, and after a minute or so of just sitting together, Diana lay down, pressing a few pieces of wheat beneath her back.  
Clark joined her almost a minute later.

 

“Can I ask ya’ something?” Clark asked, the barest hints of his accent drifting back in.  
Diana didn’t respond.  
“Nothin’ about your dream, honest.” His head turned toward her, and Diana, still staring up at the passing storm, the clouds and sky a lighter gray than they had been when she’d first come out. They inched slowly across the sky, young and impatient, always awing over the world below, like children urning for adventure. Reflecting the slight warming light, emanating from of a broken dawn that bled slight reds over the far horizons.

“Please?” Clark asked, and Diana sighed, nodding against her tussled hair and the broken hay stalks.

“Alright,” she whispered, voice small, wanting to be stronger, but far too broken.

Clark turned fully toward her, lifting to rest on an elbow as he gave her his full attention.  
“..Why did ya’ come here?”

Diana’s heart dropped.

“Like,” Clark sighed, using his free to gesture with his words.  
“You travel so much, you must’a seen the world!” Clark seemed so enamored of the concept, meeting his eyes that seemed to glitter even in the low light, wide with an even wider grin.  
Diana’s brow furrowed, why was he so interested in this? He had a perfect life here.  
Maybe it had to do with the little stories he wrote, he had read them aloud to the children of the village… so maybe he was asking for them, to make more stories?  
He did seem to enjoy reading to them, his eyes had glittered so similarly…  
Clark seemed to read something in her expression, as he sighed deeply, the grin falling from his face but his eyes were still enraptured, looking off in the distance with that impossibly vacant expression that no one else in the town shared.  
The farm boy watched the distance like one would admire a work of art, and the asymptote of his focus glimmered like the silver-lining of a cloud.  
So unlike anyone else in the quaint little town.

He sighed.  
“Ya’ could be anywhere across the world, but’cha chose here,” Clark whispered, “why? Was it really a choice, or just… fate?”

 

“Fate?” Diana parroted, watching the farm boy closely.

“Well, yeah.” Clark looked to her again, expression blank, maybe even a little confused.  
“I mean, ya’ said you weren’t headin’ home, er, really anywhere.” He shrugged, using his free hand to rub at the back of his neck.  
“But ya’ still seem pretty ruffled, like ya’d rather be gone.”  
He seemed honestly sad at that.  
Then he laughed.  
“Ma’ loves ya’, she’s been doin’ anythin’ she can da’ get ya’ to stay.”

Diana smiled a little at that, Martha Kent was certainly a determined woman. Her and-  
Diana cut off that train of thought instantly, smile fleeing as quick as it’d come, especially at the images thoughts of the Amazons and her mother brought up.  
She clenched her fists into the dirt again, chafing against her bandage ever so slightly.

“I came here to find a new life, a purpose,” Diana spoke, voice slow and choppy, and slowly her grip on the earth loosened.  
“And I have found one.” She smiled, the expression slight, but Clark seemed to take easy note, “through man’s kindness.”  
She turned back to stare up at the peering stars that were slowly revealed, eons old and watchful, but quick to be hidden even as the the curtain of cloud rolled past, they came into view in time to be blotted out by the sun.  
Diana brushed the smeared sod from her fist off on her leg and sat up, solid in her decision. She had to, before the powers that be caught their sights on Smallville.  
“But now I must move on.”

Clark jolted into a sitting position.  
“Wait? You’re leaving? Now?” He asked quickly, Diana simply nodded and sat up, rolling out her shoulders.  
“Ya’ve only been here a few days!” He exclaimed, Diana just stood up.  
“Where are you going? I thought-” He asked frantically.

“I’m going to visit a friend in Langley Dell,” she stated plainly.  
Clark shifted, gesturing to her bandaged arm with a frantic shift as he kneeled in front of her.

“But you’re still healing!” He said, “you can’t go!”

“If I were to stay any longer I would be putting you and your family at great risk,” Diana spoke, hoping the slight tremor in her voice didn’t give away how she desperately wished to stay.

“But-But,” Clark floundered, “y-ya’ got all those fighting moves! And ya’ said you’d teach me!!”

Diana brushed the rest of the dirt from her long tunic.  
“My skills may be plentiful, but so are my enemies,” she stated, “and besides, I swore no such thing.”

“Oh come on, please, stay one more day!” He begged, clamoring to a standing position as Diana tensely began to walk back toward the cottage.  
“Or- Or le’ me come with ya’!” He exclaimed, running to catch up with her.

Diana whipped around fiercely and halted her steps, the suddenness of the motion making Clark stumble slightly.  
“Why in Hera’s name would you want to do that?” She exclaimed, waving her arms with at the notion.

“I’ve, well…” he rubbed his arm at his opposing bicep, looking downward sheepishly.  
“You’ve seen what it’s like around ‘ere,” he sighed, like the tranquility and the peace were something shameful and disappointing.  
Diana stared at him, bewildered.  
Nothing around them seemed anything less than perfect to her.

“It’s so dull,” Clark continued, pouting, “‘same thin’ day after day after day!An’, don’ get me wrong, I love ma an’ pa to bits, but…” He sighed dramatically.  
“I jus’ don’t belong here anymore.”  
There was a weight to that statement, and the distance that had perplexed her reared itself full force in his eyes, but now they were staring right at her. Eternity in the inches of distance between them.  
Diana turned away, but Clark grabber her by the shoulder before she could leave.  
Both knew her allowing him such a gesture was placation at best, but Clark didn’t care, he thrust himself back in front of her, closer now, and stared her down, his slightly taller hight to her baring down like an avalanche.

“It’s why I wanna travel! And I jus’-,” he took a deep breath, brows pressed together and head tilted slightly down, the expression deep and pleading.  
“I’ve wan’ed to for a long while,” he smiled, slightly, “And, and you just, show up!!” He exclaimed, obviously still excited at the mere idea of leaving, even though Diana didn’t understand it one bit.  
“A traveler from far away lands, come here!” He told it like one of his stories, the same shine in his smile.  
A smile that twisted her heart so familiarly.  
“It’s perfect,” he said, slower, hand still heavy on Diana’s shoulder.  
“It’s fate.” It was a statement this time, there was no doubt in his tone, and only the slightest tinge of desperation.  
But his hope, his slight smile…

Diana sighed.

She couldn’t let anything happen to that smile, not again.  
Never again.

“You’re young, so I do not fault you for your naiveté,” Diana spoke, placing a hand on the one he held to her shoulder, slowly lifting it to let it fall, but never letting go.  
“But what you have here, a family, a promising, peaceful life…” She sighed, not willing to look up at Clark’s expression that had surely fallen.  
“It is a gift I will not let you squander.”

And it was there she left him, in the fields of farm-land where he did not belong, and after collecting her horse, her scant belongings and dressing, she left before ever saying goodbye.  
She’d said enough goodbyes.  
But none had ever been good.


	5. You've Got a Fire Inside but Your Heart's so Cold

Argo weaved through the tight thicket with Diana leading her reins, the damp plant litter crunching beneath their feet and soaked mud sinking and slowing their progress. The air was thick with a cushioning, earthy scent, but jagged with windchill and frost. Diana yearned for warmth, for some protection from the elements that slowly chipped away at her fingers, nose, and ears.  
But, as if to spite them, the slow patter of rain only quickened against the leaves of trees above, dripping down to slowly but thoroughly drench both Argo and her rider, and give more mud for them to plod through.  
Freezing, feet aching from having been moving since dawn, unresting since Smallville, they trudged. Boots sinking deep into the sludge, each step laboring, squelching. Diana found herself impatiently checking her compass.  
Dusk began to fall, the edges of the horizon bleeding out over the trees and sky, gaping like an open wound. Diana rubbed at her still bandaged forearm, the several day old bandages dirtied, fraying and stiff.  
She knew their destination had to be close, or rather, she hoped that it was.  
She wasn’t sure how much longer they could keep on for.

Diana looked to her companion, unsure how much longer Argo could keep moving. The downpour was not taking too much of a tole, what with her thick winter coat having already grown in. But the sinking forest floor made the large mare’s movement’s an exhausting trek, the pull required from the tough terrain threatening a torn ligament.  
Argo whinnied, instinctually, she was likely aware of this threat. Even as she continued to trot heavily along, the mare showed her hunger by pulling leaves off the fading trees they passed, munching on them as they continued their move.  
The amazon wondered for a moment if it were just coincidence that Argo had stationed herself to Diana’s left, where the wind threw itself the harshest, or if the horse was consciously acting as a windbreaker, keeping her rider close as if to protect her from the harsher conditions.  
Another sharp wind bit past and Diana instinctually pressed herself closer to her furry companion, tucking her arms closer to herself and gripping the reins tighter.  
Diana began to mumble beneath her breath, something instinctual, only realizing after the fact that she was praying.  
As soon as she realized this, she stopped. She knew it was useless, the god’s had long-since abandoned her, deafened by her betrayal.  
Nonetheless Diana wished for warmth, and for guidance.

But hadn't the need for guidance been exactly why she’d chosen this path?

Diana sighed, half expecting the breath to cloud in the frigid air.  
Of course, she couldn’t claim to be surprised. The sudden dip in temperature had not been by any means, unexpected. Autumn had been slowly creeping onward for a while now, the trees had long begun their shift in hue, and cool winds easily shuffled through.  
These bared the changing seasons quite plainly.

And yet, when she had been in Smallville, among the wheat fields and soft smiles, it had seemed an eternal, fruitful summer.

Diana shook away that thought, knowing she had burned that bridge already, there was no going back. Heaving out a breath that fell in her heavy chest, as she checked her compass again.  
Still, it directed her due east.  
Diana glowered at the device, barely withholding from taking her frustrations out on it. She instead settled for shoving the small item rather fiercely back into its pouch.  
She tugged Argo’s reins onward.  
She wouldn’t damage it, besides, even if he’d given it to her… technically, the compass wasn’t even hers.  
Diana shivered and sighed, reminded of the singular other thing that was gifted to her, set in the same, bloodstained, tan hide pouch.  
A small drawing of a family, only a few inches across, but holding so much meaning.  
So much love, from even a man.  
The slow, thorny vines of dread and depression crept to contain her weary spirt. Darkening her spiraling thoughts, her muscles grew taught and her actions robotic as she sunk deeper and deeper into her thoughts…  
Argo nuzzled her cold, wet muzzle against Diana and whined softly.  
Diana blinked, and almost smiled.  
It was as if she could sense when her rider felt down.  
The mare whinnied sweetly, pressing herself closer to Diana. Tickled by the wiry outer layer of her coat, Diana did smile, ever so slightly.  
The animal likely just thought Diana was cold, but it was nice to imagine otherwise.

“It’s okay, girl,” Diana mumbled with a steady, small smile, pausing their movements for a moment to rub her hands up the mare’s dank coat, burrowing her icy hands in the mare’s warm, soft under-coat. The heat allowed her a quiet sigh of respite.  
But just standing around wouldn't do anything to help them progress, and if they didn’t get to Langley soon, she feared they might as well freeze.

They started up again, feet and hooves alike sinking deep into the mud, the squelching sounds of their movement accompanying the growing, heavy scent of dirty water, pungent earth, and soggy pine forests.  
And as if just to spite them, the rain grew heavier.  
Minutes passed as the thick wood grew sparse, the ground growing even sloppier and harder to push through as icy rain continued to pellet.  
Diana hunched in on herself as they trenched up another hill, the slope slick and tall.  
She wondered idly if she should go around the hill, or set up camp somewhere, as the clouds above were still heavy and gray, awing at the world they helped create.  
The trees around them shifted, as if untrusting of the strange traveler in their midst. Communicating with every rustling branches and shifting leaves. They sprawled over the plain, young but with the communal, old soul of nature shared between their roots and in the deep soil.  
Diana uttered another blessing beneath her breath to appease the woodland spirits, but in the middle of her short prayer, something tinged the very edge of her hearing.

Something like laughter.  
Diana inhaled sharply, half-prayer forgotten and thanks passing her lips, as her eyes widened, pausing as she listened closer, hopeful .  
She heard it again.  
In a moment she was moving again, directly up the hill with Argo slow to follow, and as they neared, Diana heard the muffled call of civilization over the rain’s steady hush.  
The lights of their destination glistened in welcoming, the sun setting slowly in the distance, still hazily watching over them.  
They moved more easily here, on the pressed, semi-clean roads as civilians laughed and chatted as they rushed through the wet.  
Diana felt her mouth water at the delectable scent of something salty and savory drifting from the smoke of the chimney within a close tavern. Diana allowed the promise of a warm meal to loosen the tension in her shoulders ever so slightly, and moved toward it, ducking beneath the awning and knocking on the door.  
She half-noted the dank wooden sign, swinging above the entrance in the frigid winds, that read ‘Parados Tavern and Inn’.  
A man came to open the door a moment later, he was stout, with freckles and rumpled brown hair, going grey at the edges. His head was still turned toward something inside as he blocked the entryway with his small plump body, likely as an attempt to block the icy air from entering.  
He tugged his fur coat closer to himself clumsily.

“V’hat can I do for ye-“ The man finally met Diana’s shivering gaze, and he blinked, noting her tall, strong-armed, and clearly shivering stature, her little clothing for such a cold day, and finally the mare who stood close to her side.  
Upon seeing the horse, a spark of recognition lifted the man’s expression to a welcoming smile, but instead of fond, the expression seemed… Tired. Wrinkled like it didn’t fit quite right, as if the blending of faded wariness of his eyes was something new, unused to being pared with the crumpled grin he seemed far more used too.

“Ah, stables are ‘ust off za’ way,” he pointed to the road, where the rain had lightened ever so slightly.  
“Ze one with ze yellow sign, ‘va? Cant miss ‘em.” Diana nodded in thanks, arms still gripped tightly on herself as she moved toward where he’d pointed. Tugging Argo’s reins lightly as she ventured out into the still pouring rain.  
The man called out to her.

“Do ya’, ah, ya’ v’ant to borrow a coat?” He man asked, Diana gave slight pause and turned back to face him.  
Argo huffed impatiently, and Diana petted the mares snout.

“‘Vell, I assume yer comin’ back,” he paused, and Diana nodded. She had planned to get a meal, maybe find a room for the night.  
“Ya look like yer in need ov’ a place v’arm, at ‘least until ze’ weather stops.” He gestured to the pelleting rain, and though Diana continued to shiver, sure the tips of her fingers were blue, she took pause for a moment, wary.  
She had done nothing to earn this man’s kindness.  
So, there had to be some sort of catch.  
Yet, the man’s expression seemed to betray no hidden agenda, and Diana was freezing…  
She approached him again, far more cautious this time and nodded, slowly. Once, unsure of what to say.  
He awkwardly parroted her nod, shuffling behind the door for a moment and retrieving a tattered looking cloak, far too large for such a little man. It was made of some sort of wool, had a thick hood, extremely long sleeves, four fang-toothed clasps down the front and seemed to be tearing at the edges.

“Ahh, ze’ nice hot meal would only be half-a shilling’,” he handed the coat to her, the movement jerky and odd.  
Diana let go of Argo’s reins for a moment, plucking the large coat from his arms and sliding the it over her shoulders in a fluid movement that seemed to keep him staring.  
Diana buttoned the clasps swiftly, enjoying the broad fit of her shoulders.  
“Only if ze a’ interested,” he amended.  
Diana blinked for a moment, watching the pint-sized man who continued to baffle her with his odd antics. He was a salesman, yet sheepish. Certainly an odd combination, but then again, this was not her world anymore.  
The edges of her lips twitching down for a mere moment, Diana finally nodded to the invitation of a warm meal, grabbing a small pouch from Argo’s back and fishing out a few small silver coins.  
She held out one, but paused.

“Do you have any open accommodations?” Her voice was even and calm, and yet, this little man’s eyebrows seemed to raise substantially.  
Diana continued to be puzzled. What about her was so strange?

“I-If ye vant to stey ‘ze night, ah, a night’d be only one an a half shillin’s extra,” he offered quickly, stumbling out half formed words.  
Diana nodded and handed over the appropriate amount.

“Ah aces,” he said, fumbling for his pocket to store the money in.  
“I’ll get’ zat nice hot meal ready for za, hm?” He said, Diana just nodded, and moved in the direction he had pointed, this time far more well suited to the weather.  
The stables had been clean and well insulated. Argo seemed happy enough with it, so she tried not to think about the strangeness of the set up.  
She entered the ‘Parados Tavern and Inn’, leaving the thick wooden door to thunk back on it’s hinges.  
The loud sound was camouflaged somewhat, amongst a tumultuous crowd that flared within. Large, barrel chested men toasting ale from tall wooden mugs lined the tables, guzzling alcohol and roaring their voices, creating something of a din that’s impressive shift from the outdoor silence had Diana’s ears ringing.  
She weaved through the crowd of people, several conversations drifting around, one who’s speaking seemed weighty and tired, complaining about the smithing of a large load of weaponry, others who cheered as they drank as if in celebration, all cohabitation into a mindless din.  
Diana took to a seat at the bar the wooden stool creaking and wobbling off it’s one short leg, as she pulled it closer to the counter.  
A woman with curly, auburn hair and honey sweet eyes approached her, leaning over the counter and smiling a kind, gapped toothed grin.

“Yer da’ lassie Harald said’d be comin, ya?” She asked loudly in a similar accent to the man she’d spoken to.  
Diana, assuming ‘Herald’ and the man she’d talked too were one and the same, nodded exaggeratedly.  
“Okie! I’m Eira, I’ll be getten ya goodies!” She exclaimed cheerfully, taking a few steps off and grabbing what seemed to be… a spoon, and an empty bowl?

“Here ya go, grab ya’self some from whichever pot ya like. I’ll bring ya’ a nice tall ale in a bit, kay hun?” Eira grinned, fluttering her eyelashes.  
Diana got the feeling she was supposed to nod, so she did.  
Diana watched Eira busy herself for a moment, collecting stray ale glasses, stacking them at least four high before she noticed Diana still just sort of… standing there. Seeming vaguely lost.  
Eira moved to tap Diana on the shoulder, but she’d turned before she’d even been touched.

“I sugges’ ze Mølje, if yer lookin fer some’n with some flavor,” she pointed Diana to a table closer to the side.  
Diana just nodded and thanked her, before once again marching off at another’s suggestion.  
She sat down at the only empty seat to a rather large table where, she had to admit, everything smelled really good. Even with the intoxicated patrons, swaying and shouting and bumping into her, Diana found herself relaxing, if only a bit, into the warmth of her loaned coat, the air by the crackling fire, and the warm meal she spooned into her bowl from the large pot in the center of the table.  
She hadn’t even finished filling her bowl when Eira came over, sporting three tall pints of ale.

“Here ya go!” She exclaimed, conviviality loud enough to be heard over the din.  
The two men accepted their ale with fervor, only just then seeming to notice that Diana had joined their table, and she supposed, given their completely shit-faced state, this was not surprising.  
Diana set down her ale, rolled up the sleeves of her borrowed coat, and quickly dug into her mouthwatering meal.  
The first bite was mostly fish, salty and lean, but the sauce gave it a more savory, meaty taste. And with every bite she found more ingredients, potatoes and carrots, something smoky that had her reaching for her drink.  
She realized after her second serving how desperately she’d needed food.  
Diana chugged the bitter, acidic ale with revery, many of the burly men at the table watching her down the entire pint in awe, cheering her on with the reckless conviviality only drunkards can truly achieve.  
It seemed after she had downed two ales, they seemed to be trying to invite her to a rather slurred conversation.  
Something about a fisherman who’s daughter was taking over the business, honestly she wasn't sure if the fuzziness in her head was due to the din of the crowd, her third ale, or the fact that she really couldn’t care less.  
Nevertheless, moments later she was poured another ale, and asked if she needed anything else. Diana thanked the hostess deeply, but replied that she was fine, continuing to chow down on the delicious, if a tad salty, meal.

Diana was in the middle of gulping down another pint of ale when an extremely drunk man approached her from behind.

“Ey, ya stole me coat!” He swayed even as he spoke, grasp tight on her shoulder as if to use her as a crutch.  
Diana turned toward him, disentangling his hand from her shoulder in an easy movement. She looked to the corner of her eye and saw the brunette waitress standing shocked and still, almost afraid to approach.  
Diana decided to go for a peaceful approach, pushing out her chair, the wood screeching against the floor as she twisted, still seated to face him.  
She tugged off the coat to the sound of several whistles, which she didn’t quite understand. She did, however, understand how the drunkard looked her up and down. Licking his lips carnivorously, swaying and ducking down close to her, breathing into her ear with his hot, heavy, disgusting breath, even after she’d moved to hand him the coat.

“But don’ worry,” he breathed, alcoholic and repulsive, “ya can make it up to me,” Diana’s fists clenched to match her dark scowl, “girlie.”

The thunderous crack of her chair smacked against the ground, and Diana’s fist connected with his jaw in a sickening crunch of bone.  
The man’s body twisted and smacked down onto the floor with a clattering bang, shaking the nearby tables.  
Diana scowled.  
Her fist still stung by the shock of her blow, her chest heaved as the fuzz of adrenaline made her tense muscles shake.  
Diana felt an arm clasp around her shoulder. She whipped around, alert, knees bent at the ready, only to blink and recognize familiar tan skin and charming, if shocked eyes.  
The ex-amazon was instantly reminded of gentle hay fields, sunshine, and all she’d left behind.  
Something about it made her relax into the half-embrace.

“Come on naw’, dear,” Eira hushed over the din, arm wrapped almost protectively around the warrior’s shoulder. Diana just looked down. Something in the back of her mouth almost tasted sour.  
Hadn’t she just sworn to protect those of man’s world?

“A hit like zat must’a busted ya knuckles pretty good,” Eira asked, using her free arm to grab Diana’s hand.  
She examined the reddened knuckles for a moment, then patted Diana’s arm kindly.  
“Le’s patch you up, ya?” The shop-keep guided Diana through the unruly crowd, who had continued to shout and cheer, doing whatever drunk men did.  
Diana payed them little mind.  
They passed behind the bar, where Eira stopped for a moment to fill a clean mug with water and grab a reasonably clean rag.  
Diana stood, awkwardly listening to a man who was failing to recall a story —something about corrupt nobles and a fallen kingdom, she thought— and debate details of it with another drunkard, who seemed to also be dozing off mid-meal. 

Eira laughed at a rather unfunny man’s try at humor, before excusing herself. She pulled Diana up a small stairwell, the flight creaking under them.  
Eira opened the third door down a short hall, where they could both still hear the chatter from downstairs, and guided Diana into a small, well worn bedroom.  
It smelled like old wood, bitter ale and smoke. The bed was thin and small, the lumpy mattress fitted with a single brown blanket.  
Without a word, the young shopkeep sat down on the bed.  
Diana paused.

“Wha’cha waitin’ for?” She asked, only to receive a blank stare. She shook her head fondly.  
“Come’ere.” Eira patted the mattress beside her, Diana hesitantly moved to sit.  
Diana had learned from her time in Smallville of the many differences in culture, little things that made her stick out like a sore thumb. She did not want to be associated with the Amazons, and yet, she knew how to be little else.  
And yet, Eira didnt seem to notice.  
Simply dabbing at the old scars of the warrior’s knuckles, the scabs she knew went untreated from her short battle with Urzkartaga. She payed special attention to the one that had busted open when she broke that man’s jaw.  
With closed shoulders and a pensive expression, Diana focused on her breathing.  
She found the rough sting of the cleansing rag on her bloodied knuckles to be… rather nostalgic.

“So,” Eira spoke, cutting through the silence.  
“Is zer a reason you decked zat man? Or vas it just for ze experience.”  
Diana wasn’t sure if she was joking, opting to answer the question instead.

“He said I stole his coat,” Diana muttered.

“..Huh?”

“He said I-“ Speaking louder this time, Diana was cut off by Eira’s lifted hands and shaking head.

“No no, I understood,” Eira took Diana’s hand again.

“Then why ask?” Diana tilted her head slightly.

“I vas- I, oh neva’mind.”  
Eira focused on dabbing at the sluggishly bleeding cuts.  
Diana couldn’t help but feel like she’d done something wrong.

“So,” Eira started up again, posture straightening a little.  
“Vat brings ya here anywho?”

“Oh, um,” Diana paused, “I’m just… looking for someone,” Diana looked out the small, musty window, just beyond the tree-line. She assumed it was woodland creatures, other people, or maybe just the wind causing the trees to shuffle.

“Oh~” Eira smirked rather slyly.  
Diana raised an eyebrow.  
“Well you seem to’ve come a while jus’ ta find a bed-warmer,” Eira pushed her chest out, biting her bottom lip.

Diana just felt confused, again.  
What does a warm bed have to do with travel?  
But, this did present a good opportunity, Diana noted. She’d realized upon finally arriving to this town, that there was a lot more of it than she’d assumed.  
Perhaps Eira may know where she could find…  
“Tracy Trevor,” Diana spoke quickly, “I’m looking to find Tracy Trevor.”

Eira’s eyebrows raised, just a fraction, and her smile fell.

“Sound’s pretty specific,” Eira spoke, slouching a little.  
“Zer any reason?”

“I seek counsel.” Diana spoke quietly, “and she may be the only one who can offer it.”

“Ahh,” it was obvious she didn’t quite understand.  
“Vell, I haven' seen her out and about in a vhile, but in ze morning I can take you by. She runs ze little boat shop up za' way.”  
Diana took Eira’s hands in hers, clasping them tightly.

“That would be greatly appreciated,” Eira’s cheeks seemed to grow pink.  
“Sister,” Diana looked into Eira’s eyes, smiling.

“Haha, ya…” Eira seemed tense. “Yah… sister.” She seemed almost unused to the word.  
Diana wondered if she’d done something wrong, again.  
Eira pulled her hands away.

There was then, a rather awkward pause.

“Do, ah, do ya vant me to bandage it?” Eira gestured to the wound she had finished treating.  
“Or do you vant to…?”

“I can,” Diana said, hoping her smile would alleviate some of the tension.  
It helped a little

“Ah, okay.” Eira stood up, dusting imaginary dirt from her skirt.  
“Vell, zis is yer room for ze night, ah…” She slipped out of the doorway, poking her head back in for a moment.  
“Do ya need any’zing?” She asked.  
Diana shook her head.

“Okay zen, goodnight.”  
Eira rushed away.

“Goodnight,” Diana spoke to the empty room.

 

Down the hall, Eira sat on the staircase, kicking herself.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” She flopped onto her back, auburn hair splaying on the floor.  
“Your v'one chance, and ze lass sister-zones ya?!” She threw an arm over her eyes and groaned.  
This was going just great.


	6. The End of the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long awaited, but guess who it finally is :D

The broad crown of his father glinted in the limelight as a five year old boy giggled madly, the pilfered ringlet of gold held tight in the vice-grip of the prince’s tiny hands. His father would definitely be searching the castle for both his son, and his precious crown. But Bruce had decided his father could not have it.  
Prince Bruce, in all his five year old wisdom, had decided that he did not like his coronet. It was small and silver, and his parent’s matching pair of bright gold always seemed to garner so much more respect!  
So, he’d decided that for this gala, he would be the king, and Dad would be the prince!  
The five year old smirked triumphantly at his plan, not noticing his mother enter the room, nor that she noticed the crown almost instantly, as he tried to set it atop his head.  
Unfortunately, he had not accounted for the fact that this crown would be bigger, to suit his father, who was also bigger.  
So, from the top of his small head to around his collar, the golden circlet fell, hanging loose around his neck.  
He blinked, baffled.  
This had never happened to Dad before.

His mother barely stifled her laughter.

Bruce tried to once again place the crown on his head, only for it to hang down around his neck once more.  
He pouted.  
His mother gave a slight, gentle laugh that Bruce had not expected at all; whipping around at the sound, his tiny legs stumbled, and fell to the shock. The golden ringlet clattered around at his neck.  
His large blue eyes met the matching gaze of his mother.  
Even so young, Bruce always had a flair for the dramatic.  
Thus, is pout grew deeper.  
“Mama!” The little boy exclaimed, extremely indignant.

Martha failed to hide her giggles as the sound spilled from her hand.

“Oh my darling,” his mother knelt before him, flowing gown curling around her with the etherial grace of a weightless petal, drifting from it’s blossom.

“I don’t think that fits you, just yet.” Queen Martha spoke just as sweetly as she smiled, even as her son’s pout deepened somehow further.  
But she could tell he was simply acting by how the edge of his pout twitched, and by the smile that broke just a second later, falling into his own set of childish giggles, that turned to hiccups, that turned to a simple smile; to match his mother’s.

Martha lifted her husband’s crown from her son’s small neck, and placed it to the side, expression falling forlorn at the day she knew would come, someday, where her little boy would wear his father’s circlet and bear it’s tremendous weight.  
Bruce seemed to sense the shift in moods for his mother, and did not do much else but wait, head steady and eyes concerned, as his mother revealed his own smaller crown. The familiar ringlet of silver, incrusted with sapphires and emeralds alike, replaced his fathers, settled gently upon his head.  
Far smaller, the weightless ringlet stayed.

“My darling,” Martha whispered, voice willowy and faded, hands drifting from the crown to her child’s shoulders, she pulled him close and tight; she whispered.  
“Don’t you ever become king.”  
She pressed a feather-light kiss to the six year old’s forehead.  
“Promise to stay my little prince forever.”  
Into his mother’s shoulder, the small boy nodded, arms reaching out to hold as much of his mother’s warm, steady form as his little arms could grasp.  
In a young, gentle voice, he replied.

“I promise.”

 

Bruce awoke to the nothingness, which, for him, was quite odd.  
The dream, or memory, or whatever might lie in the blurred absence between truth and thought, still flickered, visceral and steady in his mind.  
Bruce threw the covers from his form with purpose, and slid out of bed, an elegant movement that was only slightly hindered by his broken and bandaged ribs.  
In two steps he’d grabbed his robe from it’s hook on the wall, tying it’s matching blue sash around his waist, the thick soft fabric combatting the chill of the morning air.  
He threw back the deep mahogany curtains, greeted by the tail end of the rising sun. Wincing, his hand moved to block the light.  
A moment later, with eyes adjusted, he watched out over the horizon, toward the dance of light beyond.

God, he hadn’t seen the sunrise in years.

 

A good few minutes later, a familiar sound caused him to turn from the sight.  
“Master Bruce,” the familiar voice spoke in time with the large, mahogany door sweeping mostly open.  
Alfred turned from where he had pushed the door with his hip, the tray holding Bruce’s morning tea clinking ever so slightly, and his charge’s event clothes folded over his arm.  
“It is time to-”  
Alfred took pause at the sight of his charge, still dressed in his bedclothes, seemingly contemplating the view from his bedchambers.  
A view he had surely gotten used to… though, its majesty never failed to awe Alfred, so he supposed he should not judge with such haste.  
Still, it was very unlike Bruce to not sleep in at least another hour or so.

“Oh, hello Alfred,” Bruce said, his voice was… melancholy, which was an odd sight on him.  
Bruce was not one for casual emotion. It was either open sadness, or cold nothingness.  
Quite honestly, Alfred was unsure if this was an improvement.

“You are awake.”  
Alfred still stood in the doorway.

“I thought I was supposed to be the detective here,” Bruce said, his joke flat and smile low.  
Alfred quirked an eyebrow, but little more.

“Of course you are, sir,” Alfred moved as if he had not missed a beat, kicking the door closed with his heel and strutting inside, tray of hot tea set to his bedside, and laying Bruce’s clothes out onto the sheets.

“This morning we have an earl grey imperial, two sugars, just as you prefer.” Alfred spoke, turning from the clothes and lifting the tea cozy from the pot of tea.  
He lifted the top, gulfs of steam rising into the slightly chilly air, wafting with sweetness and gentle flavor. He added two spoonfuls of sugar, before replacing the top with a gentle clink, and in the same motion, he poured the tea through the strainer, and lifted the now full tea-cup to Bruce.  
Or, where Bruce should have been.  
Alfred blinked again, meeting the eyes of his charge.

“Come, sit,” Alfred spoke slowly, evenly.  
He set the tea down onto the side table.

Bruce moved with an odd trepidation, taking a moment to untie his housecoat and hang it on its hook, before taking his normal seat at the edge of his bed.  
Alfred held out his dress-shirt to him, which he took and slid over his shoulders, adjusting the cuffs as Alfred lifted his tea; Bruce took it, inhaling the aroma in movement that was far less unsure.

“Thank you,” Bruce whispered, voice gentle and oddly… young.

Alfred simply nodded, grabbing Bruce’s plain white stockings from where he had set them on the bed, kneeling down in front of him.

“As to your schedule for today; this morning you have been requested to meet with the council, concerning the state of your knight, or lack-there-of.”  
Bruce’s expression soured. Alfred pulled the second sock over his knee, and gestured to the bandages wrapping his torso.

“I have already declined on your behalf, stating excuse of illness,” Alfred took Bruce’s tea just as he held it out, moving to sit back for a moment as Bruce grabbed his trousers and pulled them on, buttoning them.  
“As per usual, they send their regards.”

“I’m sure they do,” Bruce muttered distastefully, handing Alfred the shoes as he grabbed his cufflinks and fitted them through the small holes.  
Alfred smirked slightly and rolled his eyes, holding out one boot as Bruce stepped into it, following the second one, he buckled the belts across the dark leather.

“Commander Gordon, as per monthly routine, he will be here at eight to discuss kingdom affairs.”  
Alfred stood, brushing off his knees.

“Normally we would be sharing breakfast with the commander,” Alfred lifted his waistcoat from the bed, Bruce turned to help him slide it over his shoulders, “but as we are running a tad early-“

“No, no, I can wait to have breakfast with Jim,” Bruce smiled as Alfred came around to his front, clasping the jacket closed. “Besides, it’s only an hour or so. I have a few files I can busy myself with until then.”

“Ah, more on this ‘Red Jack’ character?” Alfred asked, handing Bruce a pair of short, white gloves, before grabbing the last item from the bed, a half cape, that he then pulled around Bruce’s broad shoulders.

“Last night I ran into him again; or rather, his handiwork.”  
Bruce’s expression turned to a dark grimace; one more befitting Batman than himself.

Alfred hummed as, using a pin with the engraving of the Wayne crest, he pinned the half-cape in place.

“It just doesn’t make sense.” Bruce adjusted his gloves, glaring at the poor cloth as if it were this mysterious ‘Red Jack’.  
“Looking at it, these scenes; they look like an open autopsy preformed at gun-point. There’s no rhyme, no reason behind them. The victims seem completely random as well.”  
His eyes narrowed, Alfred straightened his jacket.  
"It's causing a great deal of panic; no one knows who could be next. No one knows why."

“Well, I suppose you will be in your cave, then?” Alfred asked.  
Bruce nodded, lifted his cup and took his last swig of tea.

“Alright, I shall alert you when the Commander gets here.”  
Alfred bowed, and Bruce nodded; seeming bright with purpose, his half cape flittering as he strode out of the room.

Alfred sighed.  
At least his charge was feeling more like himself.

Alfred moved to the curtains to draw them more fully open, watching the skyline for a long moment.  
He was proud of Bruce, of all he had accomplished, all he had saved.  
Quite frankly, he hated the reasons it had to be done. He hated the city that needed him so.  
He hated, not what Batman did, but how he, how the world had failed Bruce, such that the Bat was forced to rise.

Alfred pulled the curtains closed.


End file.
